


Whipping Boy

by Tyranno



Category: Marco Polo (TV)
Genre: M/M, Torture, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 04:25:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7743292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyranno/pseuds/Tyranno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Marco's trial, Kublai orders Jingim to Marco's cell to punish him for his crimes of treason in Xiangyang. Before he is to be executed Kublai wants Jingim to whip Marco and Kublai stands by and watches his son to commit the deed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whipping Boy

**Author's Note:**

> [[Prompt]](http://marcopolokinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1298.html?thread=8978#cmt8978)
> 
> would have posted this earlier, but i forgot :)

His hands and feet had lost all feeling, his thighs were washed with warm, crusting blood, but his back… His back was on fire.  
  
Another blow, and he struggled to steady himself, numb feet slipping on the slick of blood underneath him. At first each strike of the whip had been crisp and clear; now it was dull, he could hardly tell where it hit him. His whole back was raw and painful—painful in a way Marco had never felt, painful in a way that overtook his consciousness, that pushed him outside of himself. He couldn't think, he couldn't talk—he was nothing beyond every agonizing twitch of his ribs, beyond the constant, powerful ache of his spine.  
  
Marco felt like a ghost clinging onto his own corpse, loosened by every strike of the whip. Another blow, and another and another and another. He had lost all sense of time. How many times had he been whipped? Where was he? Another strike. Another. Death lurked in the back of his mind. Perhaps he was already dead. Perhaps—Another strike. Another—this was hell.  
  
A strike caught him over a nerve and knocked him loose—sent him skidding across the stone, numb feet slipping uselessly. Then, as if in slow motion, he fell to his knees.  
  
The flesh of his shoulders tore.  
  
Marco let out a sharp bark of pain, knees cracking on the wet stone. Blood ran in a wash over his chest, his arms hung uselessly. He saw the prince circle him in the corner of his eye and he cowered. A tremble started in his arms and then he was shivering uncontrollably, a string of incoherent sounds escaping him, like keening of a dying animal.  
  
“Get up.”  
  
Marco did not know who said it. It was a strong voice, a powerful one, which seemed to come from all directions at once.  
  
A large hand snatched his chin and forced his head upwards. Marco's glassy eyes did not focus. He watched the blurry shape with dull interest, shoulders still shuddering. As a boy, in Venice, a lifetime ago, he had seen the stoning of a mad man in the square. Each rock had impacted with a sharp crack that echoed through the buildings and along the canals, after an hour the man was still twitching, and most of the crowd had dispersed. Eventually a blacksmith crushed his skull with a hammer. The blacksmith had told Marco later it had been a tragedy, that God gives us the ability to recover from everything except death, and that killing was always a tragedy. But Marco had known then, as he knew now, that it was a lie. He had seen nothing in the mad man's wide eyes but gratitude.  
  
The hand dropped his chin.  
  
“Father—”  
  
“Leave him,” The strong voice ordered, “Anymore and you'll be whipping a corpse.”  
  
A heavy door opened and as soon as it closed there were hands on him, on his arms and the ropes, around his chest and pulling him close, easing him onto the floor. Arms around him, sticky and soaked with blood, pulled him against their chest. Every jostle of his spine was awful, awful, but he was too tired to cry out or move himself.  
  
“I'm sorry,” the Prince murmured into Marco's blood-soaked skin.  
  
Marco rested his head against the Prince's shoulders, breathe coming in rattling whispers. Tears streaked sluggishly down his blood-smeared cheeks. The Prince carded a hand through Marco's hair, brushing it from his face like a mother comforting a sick child.  
  
“I'm sorry,” the Prince said, again, voice thick with tears. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” He said, again and again and again.


End file.
